But Lord, Lord, her chest was pounding. Her cornrow plaits were far too tight. She knew if she pulled on one of them, the whole lot would detach from her scalp, rendering her bald. What did they call it? Stress causing one’s hair to fall out? Alopecia, that was it. Was there something called spontaneous alopecia? Probably. She’d be afflicted with that next.

She got up from her desk. From a rack next to the door, she plucked her coat, her scarf, and her hat. She slung these over her arm and left her office. She ducked down the corridor and slid into the loo.

There she prepared. She wore no makeup, so there was nothing to check save the condition of her skin, which she blotted with toilet tissue. Her cheeks bore the faint pockmarks of an adolescence given over to outbreaks of acne, but she felt it was an overt mark of self-absorption to use some sort of foundation to cover them. That smacked of a lack of self-acceptance and sent the wrong message to the board of trustees who’d hired her for the strength of her character.

Which was what she was going to need if Colossus was to get through this bad period. Strength. Plans had long been laid for the organisation’s expansion to a second location-this one in North London-and the last thing the development committee needed over at the administration and fund-raising offices was the news that Colossus was being mentioned in the same sentence as a murder investigation. That would bring expansion to a screeching halt, and they needed to expand. The urgency was everywhere. Kids in care. Kids on the street. Kids selling their bodies. Kids dying from drugs. Colossus had the answer for them, so Colossus had to be able to grow. The entire situation they were in at the moment had to be dealt with expeditiously.

She had no lipstick, but she did carry gloss. She rooted this out of her bag and smoothed it across her lips. She adjusted the neck of her sweater a bit higher and shrugged on her coat. She put on the hat and the scarf and decided she looked enough like a supervisor to get through the meeting with Griffin Strong without being accused of personifying carpe diem in the worst possible way. This was about Colossus, she reminded herself and would remind Griff when she finally saw him. Everything else was secondary.

BARBARA HAVERS WASN’T about to cool her heels in her wait for Griffin Strong. Instead, after she told Ulrike Ellis that she’d “poke round a bit, if no one minds,” she left the director’s office to do so before Ulrike could assign her a watchdog. She then had a proper wander round the building, which was filling up with Colossus participants newly returned from late lunch, from cigarettes in the carpark, or from whatever dubious else they’d been doing. She watched them drift off to various activities: Some went to a computer room, some to a large educational kitchen, some to small classrooms, some to a conference room where they sat in a circle and talked earnestly, overseen by an adult who documented their ideas or concerns on a flip chart. The adults in question Barbara took close note of. She would need to get the name of each one. Each one’s past-not to mention his present-would have to be checked out. Just because. Grunt work, all of it, but it had to be done.

She got aggro from no one as she had her wander. Most everyone simply and in some cases studiously ignored her. Eventually, she made her way into the computer room, where a mixed bag of adolescents appeared to be working on Web designs and a tubby male instructor round Barbara’s own age was guiding an Asian youth through the use of a scanner. When he said, “You try it this time,” and stepped away, he saw Barbara and came over to her.

“Help you?” he said quietly. He kept it friendly enough, but there was no disguising the fact that he knew who she was and what she was there for. The news was apparently traveling at a jackrabbit pace.

“Grass doesn’t grow here, does it?” Barbara said. “Who’s spreading the word? That bloke Jack in reception?”

“It would be part of his job,” the man replied. He introduced himself as Neil Greenham, and he offered his hand to shake. It was soft, feminine, and a little too warm. He went on to say that Jack’s information had been largely unnecessary. “I would have known you were a cop anyway.”

“Personal experience? Clairvoyance? My fashion sense?”

“You’re famous. Well, relatively. As these things go.” Greenham went to a teacher’s desk in one corner of the room. From there, he took a folded newspaper. He returned to her and handed it over. “I picked up the latest Evening Standard on my way back from lunch. Like I said, you’re famous.”

Curiously, Barbara unfolded it. There on the front page, the headline shrieked the news of the early morning discovery in the Shand Street tunnel. Beneath it, were two photographs: One was a grainy picture of the tunnel’s interior, in which several figures round a sports car were silhouetted by the stark portable lights brought in by the SOCO team; the other was a fine, clear shot of Barbara herself, along with Lynley, Hamish Robson, and the local DI, as they spoke outside the tunnel and in view of the press. Only Lynley was identified by name. There was, Barbara thought, little blessing in that.

She handed the paper back to Greenham. “DC Havers,” she said. “New Scotland Yard.”

He nodded at the paper. “Don’t you want that for your scrapbook?”

“I’ll buy three dozen on my way home tonight. Could we have a word?”

He gestured to the classroom and the young people at work. “I’m in the middle of something. Can it wait?”

“They look like they’re coping without you.”

Greenham ran his gaze over them as if checking for the truth of this statement. He gave a nod then and indicated they could speak in the corridor.

“One of yours is gone missing,” Barbara told him. “Have you heard that yet? Has Ulrike told you?”

Greenham’s eyes shifted from Barbara to the corridor; he looked in the direction of Ulrike Ellis’s office. Here, Barbara thought, was a piece of news that apparently hadn’t traveled on the jackrabbit express. And that was curious, considering Ulrike’s telephone promise to Reverend Savidge to talk to the computer instructor about the newly missing boy.

Greenham said, “Sean Lavery?”

“Bingo.”

“He just hasn’t come in yet today.”

“Aren’t you meant to report him?”

“At the end of the day, yes. He could merely be late.”

“As the Evening Standard’s pointing out, a dead boy was found in the London Bridge area round half past five this morning.”

“Sean?”

“We don’t know yet. But if it is, that’s two.”

“Kimmo Thorne as well. The same killer, you mean. Serial…”

“Ah. Someone does read the newspapers round here. I was getting a little curious about that, why no one seemed to know Kimmo’s dead. You knew, but you didn’t talk about it with any of the others?”

Greenham shifted weight from one leg onto the other. He said, sounding not too comfortable about the admission, “There’s a bit of a divide. Ulrike and the assessment people on one side; the rest of us on the other.”

“And Kimmo was still at the assessment level.”

“Right.”

“Yet you knew him.”

Greenham wasn’t about to be caught by the undercurrent of accusation in the remark. He said, “I knew who he was. But who wouldn’t have known who Kimmo was? Cross-dresser? Eye shadow, lipstick? He was hard to miss and harder to forget, if you know what I mean. So it wasn’t only me. Everyone knew Kimmo five minutes after he walked through the door.”

“And this other kid? Sean?”

“Loner. A bit hostile. Didn’t want to be here, but he was willing to give computers a try. In time, I think we could’ve got through.”

“Past tense,” Barbara said.

Greenham’s upper lip looked damp. “That body…”